I fear that the level of maturity in our home has plummeted to a new low. Yes, I realize that I have three young beautiful beasties who are all expected to embody the term "immature" by virtue of their ages, but I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about Peter the Great and myself.
The scene:
We're having a lovely family breakfast, just the 5 of us and two dogs who had just eaten but never seem to be so full that they won't linger on the boundaries and beg with big eyes and perked ears. And Alice the Wondercat, but she is too dignified to beg. She just chats incessantly until she gets what she wants. Brilliant and adorable technique.
Another creature in my house that talks incessantly is my brilliant, beautiful oldest daughter Wendy. She has a word quotient of 1.5 million she needs to meet every day, although I'm not quite sure who she reports to on that. She began talking about 3 minutes after she was born and basically hasn't stopped since. After 11 years of living with this chatterbox, I've grown accustomed to tuning her at least 75% out since she tends to take a while to make a point. I'm well aware that many of you reading this are rolling your eyes and thinking something along the lines of "like mother, like daughter." Well done.
This morning, Wendy was chatting along like a champion, and I was only about one-quarter of the way through my first cup of coffee which means I had her tuned 98% out. It wasn't until I heard her say, "And then he kicked him in the balls" that I quickly gave her my full attention. It's hard to describe just how I felt in that moment. For one thing, we don't call them "balls" in our house. It's not for any reason other than I don't think we refer to that particular part of the male anatomy at all, which only added to the shock factor. It's not my favorite substitute term for the testicles; however, it's adequately descriptive with just enough crassness to make it more than a little unbalancing to hear it come out of the perfect, sweet mouth of my Swedish babe with the blonde hair, giant blue eyes, and sprinkling of freckles across her chirpy little nose.
I was hit full-force in the face with the fact that my angelic daughter truly is staring puberty right in the mouth and that, while I prefer to think she's still innocent beyond corruption, the world is creeping into her head and her vernacular and probably is way more in than I'd care to admit. What should have been a moment of mourning for her quickly disappearing childhood followed by a lesson on proper table speak was usurped by the immaturity I mentioned above. Peter and I looked at each other and dissolved into uncontrollable fits of laughter. It was just too much to process, and quite frankly, it was hilarious. The disconnect between her normal, lovable awkwardness and the frankness with which she said "balls" was comedic perfection.
Like I said before, we don't use the term "balls," so my other two, still slightly more innocent and/or clueless, didn't understand what Wendy had said or why their parents had turned into hyenas over breakfast. I still don't know what the story was leading up to one kid taking a really low, cheap shot at another kid, but Titus, my baby, my sweet, sweet son was giving his oldest sister his utmost attention. After giving Peter and me a sideways, confused glance, he wanted to get back to the story because he needed clarification on one very important point. He asked Wendy, "Were they squishy balls or hard balls?"
Well, that did us in. We declared breakfast over and sent our confused children on their way. I know every moment of growing up isn't going to be this fun, but I will draw on this memory for a while whenever I need a little giggle. Balls, balls, balls!
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Unleash the Beasts (That is, Keep Them Inside!)
This could be one of my most controversial posts ever. So, if you're not here to have your preconceived notions challenged or to have your blood boil in anger, then I suggest you don't read this one. I'm going to get real, and I'm going to get, um, even more real. I've been in bed sick for 5 days, and I've had nothing but time to think and stew and get irrationally angry. I'm not allowing for debate on this post because what I'm about to say is hard factpinion. That's when you form an opinion so staunchly that you believe it to be fact even if it's unprovable. That said, let's get to the nitty gritty:
Designer dogs suck. I have had it with them, and they are officially on my list of Animals People Inexplicably Adore That I Do Not. Also on that list are dolphins and, well, just dolphins, but with the addition of "designer dogs," I got to make the title of the list plural. Their offenses are many, not the least of which is the fact that they are the size of a cat without any of the charm of a cat. What's the point?
Now, as an admitted cat person, you may simply receive my factpinion with a dismissive, "Oh, she's just a cat person. What does she know?" However, the fact that I have not one, but two large dogs in my house that I allow to eat, live, and even interact with kindly on a daily basis gives me every right to assert what I asserted above: the designer series of the canine class absolutely, undoubtedly sucks.
Before we moved to the Suburb on the Hill, we lived in the 'hood. Yes, the 'hood. Now, in the 'hood, people do have dogs, but their dogs serve almost one singular purpose: protect the stuff. People did not walk their dogs, nor did they have to, because their dogs expended all their energy running around their yards, barking like hooligans, growling like hell hounds, protecting the stuff. It wasn't without merit, either. Our particular pocket of the 'hood was pretty unsafe with people forcefully taking other people's stuff and lives and things like that.
Incidentally, I never felt particularly unsafe there. We lived on the corner of Random Side Street and Getaway Road. Random Side Street was short, and we knew our neighbors. There was chatty Colin whose worst behaviors involved talking way too much, unable to read body cues from the mommy trying to get into the house where her baby was, and trimming our trees without permission in order to curry favor with the hubs who would then feel obligated to pay him back. Annoying? Sure. But harmless. Then there was Stock Car Reuben who traveled the country 10 months out of the year and only returned to Random Side Street to check in on his folks. Great guy. Never a nuisance. And there were the Russians who spent years building a massive house that stuck out in the 'hood like a sore thumb and would have, if they could have sold it, attracted the people who wanted to take the stuff from the owners because it looked like the kind of house that would have good stuff. In that case, I would have advised them to get one of the big dogs that the other people have. Getaway Road was the busy street that led you out of where you had done stuff, so no one was going to stop to check if the tiny yellow house with the big yard and no scary dog had any good stuff. They were just getting away.
Then we moved to the Suburb on the Hill. As I've said before, I find it idyllic. Living in a pre-planned, cookie cutter neighborhood suits me just fine for this stage in our lives. Sidewalks as far as the eye can see. Safe, lovely sidewalks for the kids to walk to school, ride their bikes, color with chalk, set up lemonade stands, twirl around sparklers...you get the idea. The sidewalks were what really sold the area to me, and in my golden haze of dreaming of a quieter life, kids connected to other kids by miles of concrete safety, I failed to notice what else comes with the suburbs and the sidewalks. That would be, and I know you were wondering if I'd circle back around, the aforementioned sucky designer dogs.
People walk around with these beasts, using them as status symbols. Just like a cup of coffee from McDonald's is better than Starbucks any day (holy cow, BONUS controversial factpinion), people will drink less delicious coffee for the privilege of carrying around that white and green cup at chest level so everyone can see. It turns red in mid-August to celebrate Christmas. So, just as people drink bad coffee in order to look good, so they buy bad dogs in order to be celebrated by people they do not know and to terrorize their good neighbors who share this community with them.
You see, designer dogs have had their sphincter muscle strength bred out of them (there is no research to back this up; it's just a natural assumption of mine). They also have ridiculously short legs which cause them to lag far behind their owners when taken out for their daily showing, aka, walk. Their owners are only interested in being seen, mind you, so they pay not one bit of attention to the beast they are dragging behind them. And the beast, with its weak anus, is pooping all over the sidewalk. Just dropping those mini bombs like a clown throwing Tootsie Rolls at a parade. The owner either does not know because they're busy being seen, or they do not care because the dog is for status and nothing lowers your status like picking up poop and carrying it around in a plastic bag.
As you can imagine, this turns the sidewalks into veritable Mine Fields of Feces, and it forces you to call out to your kids, trying not to get smashed by cars by staying on the sidewalks, "Watch out for dog poop!" Really? This is something you should never have to yell to anyone on a sidewalk because a sidewalk is no place for poop.
You may be tempted to say, "Natalie, it's not the dogs that suck. It's the owners that suck." That's not true. I'm very comfortable lumping all the designer dogs into one category, but there are responsible small dog owners in this world who don't deserve the same treatment. You know the ones. The ones who don't put them in ridiculous outfits. The ones who don't bring them into stores. The ones who are willing to lower their status by picking up the poop. I respect that. However, it doesn't erase the fact that designer dogs' mere existence will attract the status-seeking bad dog owner every single time, and that, my friends, is why they universally suck. Give me a pit bull any day who has a strong fudge hole, but for heaven's sake, pick up after it. Otherwise, I will be forced to rethink my stance on all of this.
Designer dogs suck. I have had it with them, and they are officially on my list of Animals People Inexplicably Adore That I Do Not. Also on that list are dolphins and, well, just dolphins, but with the addition of "designer dogs," I got to make the title of the list plural. Their offenses are many, not the least of which is the fact that they are the size of a cat without any of the charm of a cat. What's the point?
Now, as an admitted cat person, you may simply receive my factpinion with a dismissive, "Oh, she's just a cat person. What does she know?" However, the fact that I have not one, but two large dogs in my house that I allow to eat, live, and even interact with kindly on a daily basis gives me every right to assert what I asserted above: the designer series of the canine class absolutely, undoubtedly sucks.
Before we moved to the Suburb on the Hill, we lived in the 'hood. Yes, the 'hood. Now, in the 'hood, people do have dogs, but their dogs serve almost one singular purpose: protect the stuff. People did not walk their dogs, nor did they have to, because their dogs expended all their energy running around their yards, barking like hooligans, growling like hell hounds, protecting the stuff. It wasn't without merit, either. Our particular pocket of the 'hood was pretty unsafe with people forcefully taking other people's stuff and lives and things like that.
Incidentally, I never felt particularly unsafe there. We lived on the corner of Random Side Street and Getaway Road. Random Side Street was short, and we knew our neighbors. There was chatty Colin whose worst behaviors involved talking way too much, unable to read body cues from the mommy trying to get into the house where her baby was, and trimming our trees without permission in order to curry favor with the hubs who would then feel obligated to pay him back. Annoying? Sure. But harmless. Then there was Stock Car Reuben who traveled the country 10 months out of the year and only returned to Random Side Street to check in on his folks. Great guy. Never a nuisance. And there were the Russians who spent years building a massive house that stuck out in the 'hood like a sore thumb and would have, if they could have sold it, attracted the people who wanted to take the stuff from the owners because it looked like the kind of house that would have good stuff. In that case, I would have advised them to get one of the big dogs that the other people have. Getaway Road was the busy street that led you out of where you had done stuff, so no one was going to stop to check if the tiny yellow house with the big yard and no scary dog had any good stuff. They were just getting away.
Then we moved to the Suburb on the Hill. As I've said before, I find it idyllic. Living in a pre-planned, cookie cutter neighborhood suits me just fine for this stage in our lives. Sidewalks as far as the eye can see. Safe, lovely sidewalks for the kids to walk to school, ride their bikes, color with chalk, set up lemonade stands, twirl around sparklers...you get the idea. The sidewalks were what really sold the area to me, and in my golden haze of dreaming of a quieter life, kids connected to other kids by miles of concrete safety, I failed to notice what else comes with the suburbs and the sidewalks. That would be, and I know you were wondering if I'd circle back around, the aforementioned sucky designer dogs.
People walk around with these beasts, using them as status symbols. Just like a cup of coffee from McDonald's is better than Starbucks any day (holy cow, BONUS controversial factpinion), people will drink less delicious coffee for the privilege of carrying around that white and green cup at chest level so everyone can see. It turns red in mid-August to celebrate Christmas. So, just as people drink bad coffee in order to look good, so they buy bad dogs in order to be celebrated by people they do not know and to terrorize their good neighbors who share this community with them.
You see, designer dogs have had their sphincter muscle strength bred out of them (there is no research to back this up; it's just a natural assumption of mine). They also have ridiculously short legs which cause them to lag far behind their owners when taken out for their daily showing, aka, walk. Their owners are only interested in being seen, mind you, so they pay not one bit of attention to the beast they are dragging behind them. And the beast, with its weak anus, is pooping all over the sidewalk. Just dropping those mini bombs like a clown throwing Tootsie Rolls at a parade. The owner either does not know because they're busy being seen, or they do not care because the dog is for status and nothing lowers your status like picking up poop and carrying it around in a plastic bag.
As you can imagine, this turns the sidewalks into veritable Mine Fields of Feces, and it forces you to call out to your kids, trying not to get smashed by cars by staying on the sidewalks, "Watch out for dog poop!" Really? This is something you should never have to yell to anyone on a sidewalk because a sidewalk is no place for poop.
You may be tempted to say, "Natalie, it's not the dogs that suck. It's the owners that suck." That's not true. I'm very comfortable lumping all the designer dogs into one category, but there are responsible small dog owners in this world who don't deserve the same treatment. You know the ones. The ones who don't put them in ridiculous outfits. The ones who don't bring them into stores. The ones who are willing to lower their status by picking up the poop. I respect that. However, it doesn't erase the fact that designer dogs' mere existence will attract the status-seeking bad dog owner every single time, and that, my friends, is why they universally suck. Give me a pit bull any day who has a strong fudge hole, but for heaven's sake, pick up after it. Otherwise, I will be forced to rethink my stance on all of this.
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